To Abide in the Residue of Souls

25 Jun

I walked from the train through the gritty, industrial station. The grime coated concrete, steel and glass, a testament to the longevity of its service. I moved past some minor retail outlets and headed for the heavy stained wood double doors.

Stepping into the antiseptic sunlight, leaving the utility behind. I found myself under a modest portico, the grey of the station flushed into oblivion by the explosion of bright yellows, greens and reds.

There was some vague polka, blaring but distant. I was expecting a troop of viederhosened munchkins to happily prance by, singing loudly and sloshing beer from their mugs as their arms swung to the rythym of the concertina braying in sync with the atmosphere.

I walked through the village. I’ve seen it represented in the encyclopedia, on the web, in Hollywood’s films. The idyllic environs, tidy in its cobbled streets, tiled steep roofs and stuccoed walls. Storefronts of glass offered the wares of the keepers with their brush trimmed fedoras, long stemmed pipes and matronly buxom wives. The sight was familiar, even considering I had never been here before. I felt remotely at home.

I walked out of the village, I had another destination on my itinerary.

The road was flat. A thoroughfare across a mile or two of casual residences and businesses. Homes and clubs, interrupted by the glaring political hotspot of the outcast rightwing gathering place. Images of the swastika and the language of hate marring an otherwise festival of brotherly comfort.The dissonance, unsettling.

The sojourn continued, basically parallel to a different set of tracks, a different story.

I passed through another village. This one orderly, purposeful, engineered. The homes of the officers. It was here they stayed on compact lawns in comfortable homes, with the wives who would raise the Aryan children stolen from the countries already subjugated. Blonde hair and blue eyes in precious short supply, solutions had to be effected.

I passed that village, saying nothing to the current occupants. They were blithely trying to ignore the past they occupied.

I entered the camp. The details are everywhere. The overcrowded cabins, kitchens and bathrooms. Accommodations not fit for a range denied hen.

And then the preserved horrors. The labs. The chemistry. The bullets. The flames. The training grounds for hate.

The slave labor of the prisoners, charged with saving the officers of the reality of their handiwork. The gay Jews dominated by a hierarchy that rewarded murder and thuggery with prestige and a goround with the Jewish hookers, denied any return of money, forced to continuously submit to animals that had no problem beating men until they would shovel burnt bones into the wagon.

From the safe comfort of my agony among the residues of souls, I asked, how could people let this happen?

And then it dawns on me. How could they not?

People like to revel in the misery of others. To don the cloak of agony, claim some injury without ever feeling the pain.

Slave labor is a way of life. A misery one must be defeated into. A misery that the suffered bred into their own. A misery they could neither free themselves from, nor avoid, nor prevent allowing themselves to seek a respite, no matter how short, that ultimately would deliver more suffering upon their own DNA.
We shared the infliction, on both sides of the Mason Dixon. We devolved into warring factions over money and rights and finally, as a political move to prevent foreign interference, we set the slaves free.

We now, once again, find ourselves up against it. I imagine the point is analogous to the time before Fort Sumter. The forces are building to the pressures that pound coal into jewels.

Who are these faux Americans? Who are these people that denigrate the efforts of people to reach a solution? Who, thinks they get to punish one race, when the punishment that race inflicts upon itself can only be likened to over crowded death camps, war or the jungle?

So called educated professors are financially compensated to continuously create the mythology that the white Europeans caused it all. These white Europeans that promised your idea, no matter how profane, would be protected. And they promised you the means to back it up.

The following truths don’t require much history, don’t allow for revision. They are observable now.

Barack Obama has no claim to the residue of slavery.

The current cabal violates the initial complaint, no taxation without representation.

The unique DNA that defines each of us as individuals is destroyed by the very power that claims to own it.

So I see this, and realize, I am as powerless as the German shopkeeper, enjoying my smoke and the comfort of my wife, and feeling as helpless as a fetus, with a pair of scissors at the base of my skull, unknown is the horror of what comes next.

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One Response to “To Abide in the Residue of Souls”

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